A Clash of Fates: The Echoes Saga: Book Nine

by Quaintrell, Philip C.

  The dwarf set Galanör in his gaze, his dark eye reflecting the flames. “In all the time ye’ve known me, elf, ’ave ye ever known me to say one thing an’ do another?”

  Galanör didn’t need to mull it over. “No,” he said, for there was no other answer.

  “I won’ let it happen,” he repeated, only slower this time.

  The elven ranger briefly closed his eyes and nodded solemnly. “I do not envy the task ahead of you. You have but to ask, Doran, and I would help.”

  The dwarf’s chest puffed out as he took a long breath. “I would not ask another. The real burden has been Rus’s. If… when the time comes, I will relieve ’im o’ it.”

  Galanör had more to say on the matter, but he could see that he had pushed Doran as far as the dwarf could go. Instead, he promised himself that he too would keep an eye on Russell during the battle. If it came to it, he would end Russell’s suffering himself.

  “I wouldn’ spend too much time worryin’ about it, lad,” Doran offered, his tone perking up. “The chances o’ us still breathin’ come the full moon are damned slim. We’ll all be dinin’ in Grarfath’s Hall together before that monster rears its ugly head.”

  “Speak for yourself, dwarf,” Galanör replied with a cocky grin. “I haven’t faced Darkakin and orcs to be brought down by the wretched corpse of some Reaver.”

  Doran laughed deep in his chest. “O’ course not! Ye’re Galanör Reveeri, greatest sword dandy in all the realm!”

  Now Galanör shared his laugh. “You know of my reputation then!”

  As the evening stretched on, the elf finally picked up a drink, having chosen something less potent than Thraal’s home brew, and poured Doran another cup. They put the horrible matter of Russell’s curse behind them for now and enjoyed each other’s company, just as they had before the war, and the war before this one. Neither had ever thought they would live to call a dwarf or an elf their friend, but that’s what they were, friends.

  Galanör would have loved to have taken some of the burden from Doran’s shoulders and even counselled him on the dire situation surrounding his brother. But, in some ways, the dwarf was right - they might not live long enough to be troubled by such things. The battle they were heading into could easily be their last. Their numbers, after all, wouldn’t begin to be bolstered for at least a day and a night of fighting.

  With that in mind, Galanör let his focus wander for a time. He reminisced with Doran and the pair swapped stories of old contracts that involved the most terrible of fiends. It wasn’t lost on either of them that many of their tales ended with a drink and a hot meal in The Pick-Axe.

  “So Aenwyn’s not murdered ye yet then?” Doran slurred.

  Having only sipped his own drink, Galanör’s response retained its clarity. “Her arrows could still find me from afar.”

  The son of Dorain chortled. “She swore all manner o’ oaths to kill ye should ye ever wake.”

  Galanör gave a light shrug. “No more than I deserve.”

  “Ye came closer than the rest o’ us to endin’ this damned war,” Doran praised. “Though ye went abou’ it with all the finesse o’ a bag o’ hammers!”

  “A fair assessment,” Galanör agreed.

  Doran took another swig of his drink, though most of it appeared to make its way down his beard. “An’ now yer magic’s yer own! Not bad! Better than bein’ tied to some tree I suppose.”

  Galanör had spent some time trying to wrap his mind around Inara’s revelation. The realm of magic had long been a highly regarded theory among his people, but actually knowing the source of all magic came from a mountainous tree, in a dimension that sat directly on top of Verda, left the elf bewildered.

  “I feel no different. And it will make no difference. We will stop Alijah from destroying the tree and magic will continue to flow as it ever has.”

  “I like yer conviction, lad.” Doran raised his cup to the notion.

  Galanör was on the verge of responding when he noticed a buzz of activity along the edge of the camp. He shielded his eyes from the fire and sharpened his gaze to make sense of the hubbub. Dwarves and elves alike were rising from their places of rest and arming themselves, their attention turned to the east.

  “Doran,” the ranger warned, abandoning his drink.

  “What are ye abou’?”

  Galanör ignored the question when he saw Faylen striding past. Unlike many others, the High Guardian kept her scimitar in its scabbard, though her hand noticeably rested on the hilt.

  “What is it?” Galanör called.

  Faylen didn’t halt as she replied, “We are not alone.”

  The elven ranger stepped out of Doran’s personal camp, navigating his tent, and looked out into the dark. There, standing tall on a shallow rise, were a team of Centaurs. While the silhouettes of some blocked out the stars beyond, there were several standing in the light of torches held in their hands.

  Galanör turned back to Doran. “Centaurs!”

  The son of Dorain spat his current mouthful of ale, spraying the air with a wet fog. “Centaurs?” he echoed.

  The dwarf heaved himself up from his log with a dazed expression as he searched the ground. When, at last, he found the bowl of water, he tipped the contents onto his face and shook his wild beard. He elicited a feral growl as he tried to take command of his dulled senses.

  “I’m right behind ye,” he promised, taking in hand the axe half of Andaljor.

  Galanör left the inebriated dwarf behind and jogged to catch up with Faylen. As he arrived at her side, so too did Aenwyn, her bow slung over her back.

  “What do you think they want?” Aenwyn pondered with just a hint of concern in her voice.

  “I have no idea,” Galanör admitted. “From what I know of them, they do not require fire to see in the dark.”

  “Then they are announcing themselves,” Aenwyn concluded.

  “Most likely,” the ranger replied, “though I have no experience with their kind.”

  “I do,” Faylen informed. The High Guardian half turned and gestured at the armed contingent to hold back. Only Doran continued, though his was not quite a straight line.

  Approaching the Centaurs, Galanör began to realise there were a lot more than he had first believed. After counting two dozen, and rising up the hill to meet them, the ranger discovered scores more of them on the other side and decided to stop counting.

  They came to a halt not far from the Centaurs. Galanör had used their last few steps to scrutinise the wild folk of the plains. Everything below the navel was that of a horse, well-muscled and strong. Everything above was the perfect combination of man and elf with, perhaps, a little bit of dwarf thrown in. They all possessed long matted hair that reached down the length of their human backs. The males looked down at them with braided beards and bushy eyebrows while the females of their species displayed their chiselled jaws and high cheek bones.

  All appeared quite fierce. The armour they wore was clearly stolen for Galanör recognised pieces of iron and pads of leather from various groups, including the Reavers. It was worn sparingly, however, allowing the Centaurs to present their tribal tattoos; thick lines of varying colours.

  In their hands, and slung over their backs, they wielded spears, bows, and axes, all of which were too big for any man or elf to master.

  A dark male Centaur, situated in the very centre of their line, stepped forward and bowed his head. “El’shenae,” he said respectfully in his native language. “I am Kelabor,” he greeted in his deep voice in the common language.

  Faylen bowed her head. “I am Faylen, High Guardian of Elandril. This is Galanör and Aenwyn,” she added, drawing a bow from them both. “I am known to Xastus and his tribe.”

  Kelabor’s face remained firm. “I am afraid Xastus fell to the orc invasion, sixteen cycles ago. Though it will please you to know that many of his tribe survived.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Faylen replied thoughtfully. “Xastus was most welcoming to m
e and my companions.”

  Kelabor looked beyond the trio, clearly done with any talk of Xastus. “I did not think I would ever see El’shenae and stone dwellers together.”

  “I’m afraid allies are few and far between in these dark times,” the High Guardian explained. “Thankfully, our people have a better history of fighting together than we have of fighting each other.”

  “Your enemy is worthy of such an alliance,” Kelabor noted. “That black scourge has blanketed our lands. They attack us day and night without cause and without mercy.”

  “The Reavers,” Faylen nodded. “They have a stronghold north of here.”

  “They guard it fiercely,” Kelabor warned. “They forced out every tribe for miles in every direction.”

  “I apologise for our presence here,” Faylen continued. “We would respect your lands in better times, but we are here to attack that stronghold and free The Moonlit Plains.”

  Kelabor scanned the distant camp. “There will be much blood on the ground.” The Centaur puffed out the slab-like muscles in his chest. “We would spill our own blood for these lands. There are none among the tribes who would see others die for it. It would be our honour to accompany you into battle.”

  Galanör’s broad smile was a reflex of the hope that sparked in his heart.

  “The honour would be ours,” Faylen replied. “You have our gratitude, Kelabor. Your numbers and strength will go a long way to helping us turn the tide.”

  Kelabor gestured to the Centaurs behind him. “These are but a few of my people. There are more across the plains waiting for my word. We will send messengers to the other tribes and they will join us.”

  Galanör’s grin widened and then faltered as Doran finally caught them up. “What did I miss?” he panted.

  The elven ranger half turned. “Kelabor, this is Doran son of Dorain, War Mason to Clan Heavybelly and a renowned ranger in these wilds.”

  Doran looked up at the Centaur and belched.

  Kelabor looked less than impressed. “Stone dwellers,” he muttered.

  “Doran,” Galanör continued, “the Centaurs have chosen to fight with us.”

  Surprise stretched the dwarf’s dazed and haggard features. “Oh,” he said pleasantly. “Would ye care for a drink?”

  17

  A Rogue Memory

  All too vivid were the dreams that haunted Alijah Galfrey. He was pleased to finally open his eyes to that first glimmer of dawn. It was quiet in his chamber, the finest suite in Lirian’s palace, and a stark contrast to the screams and clashing steel trapped inside his mind.

  He wasn’t even sure if they were his memories or Malliath’s.

  Soaked in sweat, the half-elf rose from the bed, curious as to why he had been asleep in it at all. The king had intended to meditate until first light, preparing himself to complete his task. His need for rest too great, he had clearly fallen asleep and in his scale mail at that.

  Disappointed in himself, Alijah looked across the chamber and out of the oriel window. He couldn’t see his companion out there, but he could sense his presence somewhere inside the palace grounds. The lightest of probes, across their bond, informed Alijah that Malliath was still sleeping. While he had fallen into The Hox, his companion had dived into it at some speed; it was no surprise they both needed rest.

  Acknowledging the dragon’s need to sleep, Alijah left him to it and tested the strength in his leg. There was still pain. He made for the window, dismayed to see that it still affected his walk a little. The pain in his back and shoulders was healing at a better rate, but it still made him doubt his ability to swing his sword with any accuracy or strength.

  He cursed his grandmother.

  Had they both faced the events on Qamnaran better, they could have torn right through Athis and Ilargo and taken Namdhor back in an afternoon. He could have faced Gideon and Inara and proven himself the better warrior, a fact that Gideon should know by now. And it would have been so satisfying to put Asher down for good. How many assassins had tried and failed over the decades? How many Darkakin and orcs? Perhaps he was the only one capable of killing the ranger. He would have the answer soon, he was sure.

  Peering out of the window, he could see the palace servants going about their earliest jobs. Lord Starg was likely still panicking after Malliath had dropped unannounced into the courtyard last night.

  Clipping his sword and scabbard to his belt, Alijah left his chamber and was immediately met by a dozen servants. For just a moment, he was taken back to his years in Erador where his reign had been more readily accepted. He took the offered food and water but consumed both while making his way to the grand balcony that looked out over Lirian. From there, he could now see Malliath, curled up below. In front of the dragon’s maw was the remains of a horse, though it required some scrutiny to be identified as such.

  Lirian itself was already a buzz of activity. Smoke rose from numerous chimneys, carts were driven up and down the streets, and even the market traders had already begun selling their wares. It never failed to surprise Alijah how the world kept turning when so much of it was on fire. For two years, Illian had been ravaged by The Rebellion’s efforts to overthrow the peace yet here it was, going about its day as if it were any other. He commended them for that.

  “Your Grace!” came Lord Starg’s high born voice.

  Alijah didn’t turn to greet the man, content to observe his people for a time. “This is why I am here,” he proclaimed, confusing the lord. “Look out there, to the people. Their lives are all that matter. Their peace. This is why I will fight to my dying breath, Lord Starg.”

  The steward of Felgarn looked from the city to the king. “Indeed, your Grace!” he agreed with all the enthusiasm of a man who had no idea about what was really being spoken.

  Deciding his thoughts were too involved for the lord to grasp, Alijah turned to a simpler subject. “Forgive my late arrival, Lord Starg,” he began. “Our journey is long and rest was required. You have my thanks for the hospitality and the fine room.”

  “Lirian flies the banner of the dragon, your Grace,” Starg blurted, bowing his head. “This will always be your city before it is mine or any of my successors.”

  “Successors…” Alijah muttered. “How have you found your appointment in Lady Gracen’s stead?” he asked.

  “I speak on behalf of all house Hamish when I say we are humbled by your confidence in us to steward the region, your Grace. I have lived in Lirian all my life. There is no better place,” he added with a beaming smile.

  “I too am very fond of the city,” Alijah said earnestly. “That’s why I was so disappointed to hear of rebel activity, right here in Lirian.”

  The smile fell from Lord Starg’s face. “Rebel activity, your Grace? Oh yes, the rebels. There were multiple eyewitnesses who reported seeing…” The steward hesitated, licking his lips with uncertainty.

  “I read the report,” Alijah said, putting the man out of his misery. “I am aware that my father has been moving from city to city over the last two years in a bid to recruit more to their pathetic cause. It’s just a pity you didn’t capture him. Though I am interested in the subsequent arrests you made after his disappearance.”

  “Arrests, your Grace?”

  Alijah looked round at the lord. “Those my father spoke to,” he specified. “The men and women who are sympathetic to The Rebellion. I’m sure you arrested at least a few of them.”

  Lord Starg’s body language shifted and not subtly. Alijah knew fear when he saw it.

  “There were no arrests, your Grace,” he confessed. “Many of the watch were replaced by the knights from Erador, none of which… take orders from me. I commanded the few I can to search the rebels out but they found no leads to pursue.”

  Alijah looked out at the city once more, his focus directed east of Lirian’s heart, where one familiar building resided. His thoughts remained there for a while, distracting him.

  “Your Grace?” Lord Starg enquired.

&nb
sp; “My apologies for removing so many of my knights of late,” Alijah managed, his mind elsewhere. “I have need of them on the plains - that is where my journey ends. You have my word they will return to keep the peace.”

  Without further instruction, the king walked away from the steward of Felgarn and made for the grand staircase that would take him down to the courtyard and the palace’s main gates.

  “I do hope that wasn’t your horse, Lord Starg,” Alijah remarked, gesturing to the carcass in front of Malliath.

  Lord Starg hesitated, undoubtedly upset by the scene. “No, your Grace,” he said, watching the king accept another horse from one of the stable hands. “It was my daughter’s.”

  Alijah wasn’t about to apologise for the dragon. “You’re welcome to take it up with Malliath when he wakes,” he replied with half a smile.

  Lord Starg held up his hands. “There’s no need, your Grace!” he fretted. “My daughter’s a terrible rider. Better suited to carriages! Your Grace, perhaps you would like an escort into the city? I have good men who could accompany you.”

  Alijah gritted his teeth through the pain as he swung his leg over the saddle. “I require no such escort, Lord Starg. I do not fear my own people.” With his last word, the king guided the horse through the main gates. From there, the road sloped down and round to the city below.

  The king was acutely aware of the pain that plagued his ride. Thankfully, the streets of Lirian offered him some distraction. He could also feel the presence of his Reavers. They were few, having sent most of them to reinforce the dig site and protect the doorway. Alijah ordered them to keep to their patrols with their Seekers on their leashes. He wouldn’t need them this day. Here and there, however, he did discover some of the city’s watch and he was pleased to see them attired in his colours and sigil.

  And, of course, they bowed. They all bowed; every man, woman, and child. Though, in truth, they likely had no idea who he was. His armour, cloak, and sword declared his status, but his exact title was probably a mystery to most. They knew Alijah Galfrey was their king, but how many had actually seen his face? Without Malliath behind him he was just another man of power and wealth. Still, they knew enough to bow in his presence.